


Niku Robin

by EvilFuzzy9



Category: One Piece
Genre: Cannibalism, Dolcett - Freeform, F/M, Gen, Guro, Law of the Sea, power perversion potential
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-13
Updated: 2016-07-01
Packaged: 2018-07-14 21:13:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7190663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvilFuzzy9/pseuds/EvilFuzzy9
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nico Robin's devil fruit powers find a practical, if morbid use. [cann, dolcett, non-snuff]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It was singularly surreal, thought Nico Robin, to look at herself and see herself laid out on the table like a slab of meat. More bizarre still was it to think that when she thought _'like a slab of meat'_ , she did not choose the phrasing as a figurative or poetic expression. No, it was quite literal.

Blankly, she watched as Sanji took out a broad steel cleaver and gently aligned its edge just above her knee.

Robin looked into her own eyes and saw nothing therein. Her gaze was empty and hollow, reflecting a cold numbness that pervaded her in mind and body. She did not look at the cleaver as it was raised. The only sign of emotion or sensation to show on her face came when the blade fell in a silver streak like a flash of light, throwing back the lamplight as it descended faster than eyes could follow.

She saw herself wince at the first bite of steel parting soft, white skin, and she felt the stab of pain as surely as if it had been her own leg, for was that leg not indeed _hers?_ And she saw herself lurch as the cleaver continued downward, in a single motion hewing muscle and sinew and bone, and she heard herself cry out in stereo against all restraint of stoic will, an undignified sound that pierced like a bullet. Blood spattered over skin, and a stout blade thunked to a stop in the solid wood of the cutting board, and two Nico Robins began to tremble and whimper.

One was naked and dismembered. The other clothed and whole. The former was laid on the table, while the latter stood to the side and watched and bit her lip, trying not to succumb to pain. She was in shock. It was not emotional distress, maybe, but a purely physical sensation.

She had seen this and lived this too many times to feel much in her mind when it happened. She knew how it would go, knew all the different ways it could be done. None of this was new to her anymore. It had all been done before, and unless they died or came to the final end of the world, it would assuredly all be done again.

But her body still reacted to the bite of steel and spray of blood, going into shock and almost trying to fight back on pure animal instinct, despite her attempts to restrain that impulse. Yet it was too late to fight, even had she permitted it, and all she could do was watch as the cleaver came down again and hewed the other leg.

Again blood spurted out, and again Robin heard herself whine, and gasp, and gurgle wretchedly, pain blossoming anew in her mind.

An ample bosom quivered as shivers and convulsions of agony ran up her body. A fair face went ashen white as blood drained from the stumps of her legs. A naked sex was red under lamplight, and a generous posterior slapped the table with a meaty sound. She started reflexively to push herself up, but Sanji placed a hand to her breast and shoved her back down.

Robin saw the chef squeeze the teat rather more than necessary, his fingers digging into the soft and pliable tissues of a plump, wobbling mammary. He kneaded the breast excessively, clearly using his pinning of the woman as an excuse to cop a feel. Normally he would have been a perfect gentleman, however excessive his attentions could sometimes be, but in these circumstances he could be forgiven for taking certain liberties.

As a cook, after all, it was Sanji's job to handle the meat.

_The meat._

With a sigh and a feeling that she did not wish to identify, Robin mused briefly on this label she applied to herself. Watching Sanji do to her arms as he had done to her legs, she thought back through the pain on all the times that she had been butchered and cooked and eaten alive. This was now her duty on the ship, her real job as a member of the Straw Hat crew.

Historian? Archaeologist?

As if pirates had any need for such a person! Pure scholarly inquiry had no place in a band of cutthroats and brigands, however good and noble they may be. No, Robin might have joined them under such pretenses (if "joined" is how one can really put the way she slipped her way into the crew) and she certainly went with them to learn the world's true history, but despite Luffy's sentimental nature in regards to camaraderie, Robin had to earn her keep if she wanted to be counted as a member of the crew.

For a long while, even up to the events at Fishman Island, Robin had been a historian and a historian only. But the open sea was a harsh mistress, and in hard times of dearth and hunger the high-minded pursuits of academia found themselves decidedly less sympathy among the rough and tumble sea dogs of a pirate crew, even of one as unusual as the Straw Hat pirates.

Food wasn't always easy to come by, nor did it always last as long as need would hope. Perhaps vermin would get into the dry stores, or the captain would break the locks and indulge in some ill-fated midnight snacking. Sometimes, even with all the best precautions, stores would run low or fail completely, and no birds would fly past nor fish come up in their nets.

Furthermore, sailing was a tricky business under any circumstances, and even with the best ship and the best navigator (both of which they had) it was entirely possible to get blown off course by a sudden storm, or else to find themselves stranded in a doldrum for days on end. Even without such ill chances it might be a journey of weeks from one island to the next, and as wanted men it was not always possible for them to restock at such times, whether by barter or plunder.

They faced such trials less frequently than some other crews might have, being equipped with excellent food storage and some frighteningly capable persons. If all else failed, Sanji or Zoro might dive for a sea monster to replenish their supplies, but even this was not always possible. For there came times when even the crew's manifold proficiencies, their superb kit, and their captain's own devilishly good luck would come up short, and in such black hours as those they would find themselves completely at the mercy of God and chance.

Once, at the worst of such a time that they had then yet known, some time between Fishman Island and their adventures on Punk Hazard, the Straw Hat crew had come very close to starving. Their stores had run low sooner than they had counted on, and they came less far than they hoped in their days on the sea, such that they had gone weeks without more than a few niggardly rationed morsels of hard tack. There were no fish in the water, nor sea-beasts to prey on, nor any life but themselves for as far as they could see, nor scarcely anything left in their stores but a few crumbs and dead weevils.

They had tightened their belts the best they could, but this only did so much. As time went on they grew hungrier and feebler, and it became harder and more laborious to perform their duties. Eventually they became infirm with the sheer pangs of hunger, scarcely able to stand on their own legs. Their captain was first to collapse, being a man of formidable appetite and little willpower in regards to hunger, however doughty and enduring he might have been in all other hardship.

It was when things were at their most desperate, in this unpleasant time, when they were beginning to feel the first pangs of true, fatal starvation that Robin, in a near madness of hunger abetted by her characteristic tendency to morbid observations, spoke of the Law of the Sea. Not of maritime legislation or naval regulation, but of true law, the ancient custom of life and death, and cannibalism in the utmost necessity

At any other time her words would have been brushed off with uncomfortable laughter, or else bluntly vetoed by the captain. But not then. Their bellies had shrunk nigh to their backs, and Luffy barely had the strength to speak. So it was that grimly the Straw Hats hearkened to her, and despairing of hope they made their choice.

They drew lots to decide. And it was a testament, perhaps, to heaven's sense of irony, or else to some sort of divine justice, that Robin was the one to draw the short stick, and Robin the one selected to be eaten. But when her fellow crewmates turned on her with hunger in their eyes, their wild faces a premonition of her death soon to come, she was struck with an inspiration born of sudden mortal fear.

Exerting the power of her devil fruit, Robin caused a clone of herself to sprout up from the floor. It was not clothed, and it rose naked from the boards like Aphrodite emerging from the seafoam. A few of her mates gave a look of interest at this, but still they were for the most intent on Robin herself, perhaps dubious that her clone would be either lasting or substantial enough to actually feed they advanced further on her, ready and willing to kill and devour.

In a curious mix of desperation and frustration, Robin seized a knife and lunged forward. Usopp, who was nearest to where she aimed, sprang back fearfully.

But she was not making to attack or defend herself.

Glittering steel flashed, and it pierced the soft skin of Robin's clone's breast. She hissed, feeling the pain in herself, for was this clone not an extension of herself as much as the blossom was an extension of the greater plant? She felt the skin of her corpulent teat parted by the keen, bitter edge, and blood came up from where she sliced.

Quickly she carved, biting her lip to keep from crying out, and angling the blade as a lever she pried a hunk of meat from her clone's tit. The others watched these proceedings half in bewilderment and half in understanding. Robin, still wincing, looked at the gaping wound in her clone's breast, and she stared into her own blank eyes. The clone did not recoil from her. She held it pinned there with her will.

With a grim resolve, Nico Robin raised trembling hands.

She looked with a sort of numbness at the lump of bloody, fatty flesh in her palm. Her fingers were stained red by the dripping fluid. Her heart pattered in her chest, skipping and tumbling while her stomach painfully lurched. There was a leaden weight in her gut as she raised the meat to her lips, and she felt aware of the impatient, half-mad glances of her comrades.

Raw, she ate it. Blood dripped down her chin. It was chewy and coppery and tangy, with a meaty _umami_ that agreed perversely with her appetite. Indeed the taste of it, after so many days of tasting only her own mouth, was like that of manna from heaven. Rich and fatty was the meat of her breast, gland and skin and lipid all, and she chewed on it for some length of time, almost in a daze, to demonstrate that it was indeed as real as any meat, and not just an illusory substance with no virtue of nourishment.

At last Robin swallowed, and she met the eyes of her crewmates. She did not need to say anything. They understood her meaning right away, and they were finally satisfied. So they turned from the original Robin and sprang on her clone.

That was a terrible sight, the memory of which would forever send shivers down Nico Robin's spine.

Her friends tore savagely into her while she watched. She felt it all and was driven past the brink of sense by the agony. For they abandoned all pretenses of loyalty and civility in the face of that absolute hunger which had gnawed them down for so long, ripping apart the identical twin of their comrade like wild dogs sprung upon a fallen beast. Blood went everywhere as they slaked themselves, and Robin watched herself quickly deform and diminish under those ravenous depredations, feeling clearly every hurt afflicted on her clone.

Soon enough, only someone learned in comparative anatomy would have been able to recognize what was left of that clone as human. Eight half starved persons digging into a single body could do terrible things, stripping away meat and cracking open bone, greedily sucking out the marrow like they might suck cream from a pastry. They spared no part of Robin's clone, save a half shank only for Robin herself, who had theretofore eaten but a mouthful.

Blood stained their lips. Bits of flesh stuck between their teeth and under their nails. Their stomachs gurgled with the mindless contentment of something to digest, of gristle to grind in the mills of their bellies. Glazed grew their eyes, and strewn were bones cracked and snapped carelessly across the floor. Little indeed remained of Robin's clone, and it was with a dizzying weakness in the pit of her stomach, and a lingering pain as raw as flame on naked skin, that she raised the last remnant of a body once identical to hers, and took a bite of flesh as good as her own.

Luffy looked at Robin with hungry eyes while the others lounged in a somnolent state, their bodies dazed by the introduction of sustenance after so long without. At first, Robin thought he was looking at the half-shank, the hunk of thigh meat still clinging to leg bone that she now ate. But then he opened his mouth and spoke.

"Can you make more?" he asked her, as blunt and to-the-point as ever.

Robin looked at him and nodded. Feeling a rush of heat, she answered.

"Yes, of course I can."

His eyes gleamed, and he stared at her intently. Not at her face, but at her body.

Were this anyone else, or happening under any other circumstances, Robin might have taken his intentions to be sexual. Certainly the way he stared at her bosom would have been most suggestive, had this been anyone but Luffy. As it was, however, she instead came to the (obviously correct) conclusion that his gaze was one of a much more literal hunger.

Still, sexual or not, she could not help blushing a little as she sprouted another clone from the floor.

Somehow, Robin had a feeling that this was going to be a common occurrence.


	2. Curing the Meat

Sanji hummed a cheerful tune as he worked, and Robin watched fixedly, biting her lip. A two-tined fork prodded the naked skin of a clone, here and there, piercing the skin and sometimes drawing a little blood. Sanji was intently focused as he went over the Robin's body, measuring precisely and mentally plotting out how he would cut it.

"I'll want to cook your breasts straight, I think," he said matter-of-factly, hefting one of the milky white teats in the palm of a deft and skillful hand. "There's too much fat in them to cure well. They'd shrivel up and lose all their charm, don't you think? We wouldn't want that."

In a way, it was remarkable how coolly he could survey the nude form of Robin's clone. He looked at her handsome face, her heaving bosom, her long legs and slender hands, her broad hips and shaved bush, her bountiful rear and fresh, pink pussy. He barely responded to her nudity. His visible eye flicked up and down her figure with nary a reaction, not a nosebleed or a flash of lust, nor blushing or gushing or any of his other usual responses to a feminine loveliness.

A part of it might have been desensitization, for he had seen and handled the naked form of Nico Robin many times since that fateful day when her cloned flesh had saved the crew from death by starvation. Having still been a week or more from the next island, just on that short leg of their world-long voyage Robin had been forced to supply more than ten clones worth of meat to sustain them all. And even after they'd been able to restock, it came to pass that most of the crew had gotten quite used to and even _fond_ of the particular taste of her flesh, and so she continued to supply the larders with her meat even now, many weeks later.

This was hardly the first time Sanji had done this, prepping a clone for dry rubs so as to cure her meat for storage. They had a top of the line refrigeration unit, certainly, but as often as not this was occupied with other perishables, and even finely butched and carefully stored the meat of just one clone could fill a tenth of the fridge. Two fifths of it were dedicated to meat storage, but that was far from sufficient when one considered the formidable carnivorous appetite of their captain.

So Sanji patted Robin's clone down and made remarks he'd spoken a dozen times before, working his hands over her body and thrusting in the fork at specific points. He wanted to get the curing ingredients into the meat without skinning her—as much for Robin's benefit as his. The sensory link between herself and her blossomed limbs was nebulous and hard to determine, but at the very least she would be fully aware of it if he stripped the skin from her body.

The last time and only time he'd done that, she had spent a day in senseless catatonia as a result, and her clone had dissipated. Without her focus on its body to maintain its substance long enough, it would dissolve; yet once it was butchered it was as good as real meat, and would stay indefinitely. They had not yet figured out the exact limits, nor the most efficient way to empermanent Robin's clones, but a live, dry cure rub seemed for now to work well enough.

Robin bit her lip as Sanji's hand came to a rest over her buttocks. He seized one with a dextrous grip and kneaded it, while the other he pricked thrice with his fork. She watched him massage her clone's ass and felt his fingers digging furrows through her buttocks, pinching and squeezing and lifting and pressing. She grew warm in spite of herself, as she often did when the prep reached this phase, and it was only with some effort that she resisted the urge to moan.

It was dreadfully perverse of her to feel so compelled, but she could not help herself. His hands were masterful, and something secret and shameful in the thought of being treated as less than even a whore, like she was just a two-legged sow raised for the slaughter, filled Robin with a thrill that she could not deny, though neither would she ever yet it own to any witness. Still, she could not hide the stiffening of her nipples as they stood up, or the moistening of her nether lips as Sanji switched hand and fork between her two buttocks.

Again he pierced an ass cheek with six distinct punctures, three careful jabs of his fork, while massaging the other with a skill that could scarcely be believed. Robin choked back a moan, for the pain was yet slight compared to the pleasure, and though the salt rub would soon come, yet still was it for now a plainly and forwardly enjoyable thing to be handled so gently yet callously, a tender touch brusque and unashamed of seizing her most intimate places.

"You've got a nice ham back here, Robin," said Sanji in a businesslike tone that nonetheless managed to engage the woman on a very base and pleasurable level. "This rump is big enough that it should fill even Luffy's belly—for an hour or half, at least. And these shanks, well..."

His hands wandered down and gripped Robin's thighs, working deftly around them from front to back. His fingers brushed over the puncture marks he'd made, most of them bloodless or nearly so, not yet mended and not ever going to mend, at least not on this ill-fated body. Robin watched and concentrated on maintaining her clone, fighting the urge to whine or otherwise betray her abashed enjoyment.

Nonetheless the cook smiled to himself, doubtless picking up on the cues in Robin's body, and finally removing his hands he laid the clone out on the table. Several times already had Robin felt death on that table, carved up or gutted or salted alive. It was never pleasant, not in any sane sense of the word, but she had gotten as used as anyone could to the experience. So she watched with as much aloofness as she could manage, feeling the pleasure recede as her arousal burned itself out with no further stimulus, and knowing the last vestiges would seen be forgotten in the throes of pain.

The pricks of the fork were not in any sense _deep_ , but they passed through skin and subcutaneous fat into the muscle and ligament below. Narrow were the punctures, and skillfully in-thrust as they were, few bled more than a nominal amount. Only sparse beads of red swelled up on her skin, here and there, slow and small. Many though the punctures were, they bled so little that even if they never mended she would sooner die of starvation than exsanguination.

But it was enough to let the curing mixture in beneath her skin all the same, with sufficient rubbing, and the pain of _that_ was never pleasant. So Robin drew a breath to steel herself, watching as Sanji rose with a bowl of curing ingredients, salt and sugar and nitrite, but she needn't have bothered. No amount of mental preparation could ever suffice to gird her against the first stabs of pain as Sanji began to rub white-powdered hands slowly and meticulously over her skin.

She felt nothing at first but the weight of Sanji's palms on her clone's belly, his hands pushing down just enough to create a sense of pressure. Then he began working his fingers into her skin, and sliding his hands in slow and careful figures this way and that over her belly. He massaged her abdomen, kneading and fondling it with artisanal efficiency, the deft and firm grip of a master chef working over her midsection.

Then she felt the tingling, the first rumors of the mixture on Sanji's hands as it sank through the fine punctures, pushed in like food down a throat by the careful, repetitive action of his rubbing. Soon enough after this— _too_ soon, indeed—Robin felt the tingles grow to pricks, and in seconds to a burn, and then to a manifold stabbing that perforated her belly from navel to sternum, a dozen hundred-barbed spikes piercing into her flesh then pistoning back and forth, shredding her insides with a horrible rough, gritty sharpness.

It was like shards of glass doused in brine buried under her skin and jostled about, dancing a hellish jig through the tissues of her gut. It burned her and froze her and stabbed her right through. Her breathing hitched and grew labored for the suddenness and severity of the many spiking pangs, sweat pouring down her brow and into her eyes, which were glassy and focused far into the distance. She felt hot, horribly hot, and for a moment Robin scrabbled at the front of her blouse ere she remembered the cause and nature of these sensations.

To keep from crying out at the pain that she felt would have required an iron will firmer than hers. She could not muster the resolve to restrain her voice, and it escaped her lips, and her clone's, in a piteous sound.

" _Ah!_ " they cried together. "Ahhh...! Ngh!?"

Robin shuddered and squirmed, feeling the burn slowly deepen to aching numbness, a lingering sensation that seeped through her mind and possessed all her faculties. She could devise no thoughts unrelated to the pain. She could not turn her focus away from the burning-stinging-stabbing feelings as they spread down her hips, her thighs, her calves.

She leaned herself against the doorpost as Sanji continued to work, massaging her clone with the curing ingredients. Her legs felt like jelly. Her bosom heaved with the dreary, laborious task of respiration, and a feverish sweat soaked her clothes through. Her face was red.

Sanji ran his hands over Robin's feet, and she felt his fingers rub between her toes. Her head swam as he fondled her and cured her flesh live. Her breasts felt painfully constrained in the confines of her blouse, quaking and quivering as her heart raced in her bosom.

Robin slid down the wall, slumping feebly to the floor. She quivered once or twice in paroxysms of agony as Sanji worked his way up her flanks, her sides, slapping her hips and running beneath her underarms, working around her shoulders and squeezing her hands. He touched neither her breastmeat nor her fillet—her _cunt_ —with the salt, vinegar, nitrite mix, but that was little relief.

If Sanji noticed Robin's pained, feeble moaning or herr slumping, half-senseless figure, he did not acknowledge it. Continuing in his ministrations, he kept on rubbing, turning her over and working her back. From nape to small he went, his hands moving in perpetual motions, side to side, up and down. He explored her clone's body with all the clinical disinterest of a butcher.

The limbs moved no more as he rubbed, and the clone's eyes were glassy. It was in a state of shock, as much from pain as from the curing itself. Robin could no longer feel anything more than a numbness coming from the clone, and she was trembling weakly as she watched Sanji go on working. He ran down her legs and her arms a second time, pinning her members as he worked.

She felt only a few tingles, now, faint and distant. The clone was dying. Soon it would be meat only, as was indeeed its sole purpose for being.

Robin stared and chewed her lip, feeling a jumble of emotions and sensations, few of which she could or would name. It was profoundly humbling, and strangely not displeasing, to see her clone prepared like this.

Sanji finished the back with a long and thorough kneading of the ass. He dug his fingers into the buttocks, sliding his digits to and fro through the yielding tissues of Robin's posterior. He mastered her ass with a skillful pair of hands, and she saw more than felt as he slapped the rump meat. By this point he was clearly indulging himself.

Robin noticed a bulge in the crotch of his trousers. Under other circumstances she would have been unfazed and unperturbed by the sight. She was no spring chicken, and even if she had less experience with sex than some women, she was no stranger to the queerness of manhood. But considering the context of the chef's erection, and the state of the subject of his apparent lust, Robin felt her cheeks grow warm.

"Does my backside seem that attractive to you even in its present state?" she asked him, speaking with a touch of morbid humor.

"It's a very fine backside," said Sanji airily, continuing to knead and roll the cheeks. "Just look at the shape, and the size, and the character of it. Have you ever seen one better, Robin?"

"Many, actually," said Robin with a slight laugh. "Young Koala had a very pert bottom, and from what I saw of Vivi's she had one very shapely also, and let's not even get started on Nami!"

"Fair enough," said Sanji with a hint of wistful relish in his tone, and his visible eye stared dreamily into the middle distance.

He gave the ass of Robin's clone an absentminded slap, and parting the buttocks ran a finger down between the gluteal cleavage. The clone, being a fresh and unused body created expressly for this, was perfectly clean by default, and he had given it a good wash before starting anyways.

Robin watched him continue to work, and she smiled ruefully. It seemed a very twisted state of affairs that she should stand here and converse with a crewmate while he fondled so gratuitously the ass of a dead body identical to hers, or to see him grow obviously hard and erect inside his trousers while preparing said body to be butchered and stored. It was perverse beyond description, and clothed though she was Robin felt quite naked to Sanji's sidelong glance.

"Do you need any help?" she asked him, feeling immensely if not _awfully_ degraded by this whole experience. She was worn down and drained from seeing herself butchered and cooked in so many various ways, such that it did not seem a particular affront to her dignity to make an offer this insinuating and suggestive.

Sanji met her eye, but he could not entirely hold her gaze without peering down from face to figure. He did not do this crassly or overtly, however, for he was not unchivalrous, however pervertedly his thoughts may have run, and however overgenerous he may have been in his attentions to fair women, and how quick he may have been to infatuation. He was a flirt and a lecher, but not a _pig_ , not even in this context. Soon enough he was looking her once more in the eye.

Still, Robin was conscious of the way he glanced at her body, and it sent a shiver down her spine. She did not have any particular, specific attraction to Sanji, and was possessed of neither romantic nor sexual interest in him. Not significantly so, at least. Among the Straw Hat crew proper there was little such intrigue—there were occasional flights of fancy between some of the younger, lustier crewmembers, but never anything lasting or serious. It was all, as a rule, in good fun.

Nami, though fierce in retribution against unwelcome advances, and ruthless in extorting those who caught even accidental glimpses of her body, was young and lively and visceral. Sometimes she shacked up with one of her fellows for a night, when sexually frustrated, or else would buy one of her fellow's shares in a treasure with a hot, sweaty romp between the sheets. That was not Robin's way. She was much more reserved, mature, and private a woman.

Despite this, Sanji was handsome in his own fashion, and Robin was very out of her comfort zone in all regards with these circumstances, and offering such aid or service as she implied to the younger man did not seem nearly as exceptional a thing in this absurd, surreal situation. So she made her offer and looked Sanji in the eye, and tried not to think too hard about her clone lying there on the table, dead and nude and well on its way to the larder.

Sanji afforded her a wry smile, and for a moment Robin felt perfectly certain that he would take her up on her mad, impulsive offer. But then he shook his head and waved it away, albeit clearly only after a long moment of contemplation, and through no small effort of will. He gave the ass of Robin's clone a final, halfhearted slap before taking out a butcher's knife.

"If you want to help, you can hold yourself steady while I carve off your breasts," he said, more flippant in tone than in truth. He then glanced between the clone's legs, to where Robin's cunt was visible, fresh and untouched by the curing ingredients. "And I think I'll fry up a nice fillet to thank you for the trouble."

Robin's face grew a little warmer, but she nodded and sprouted a few hands from the table to move her clone's body into a more convenient position, laying a pair of plump, creamy tits hard across a cutting board. " _Cuatro fleurs_ ," was all she said, her original arms crossing into their accustomed pose for when she channeled her devil fruit ability.

"Thanks," said Sanji, before taking the knife and going to work on her chest.

It was quick and clean with little bleeding, the clone being dead, but still a fairly morbid spectacle. Then Robin rolled the body over, and Sanji carved out her pussy with care. He cut around the labia and up to the navel, slicing out a clear share of her sex and setting it aside, along with her bosom.

After this, there was just the usual gutting and dissecting left to do. He dismissed her before he started, not wanting to trouble her with that messy work. She left the kitchen, all thrill of the moment now faded, in its place feeling shaky and sickly and hollow.

Even after so many times, Robin was not used to seeing herself treated like this, clone or not.

She did not know whether she should ever truly _want_ to get used to it.


	3. Stewing the Meat

Water boiled in a huge iron pot. Flames licked the black, pebbled undersides, cast iron glowing a faint red at its base. Steam rose in twisting, coiling ropes of vapor while bubbles popped and hissed within. It was a very large pot, big enough to drown and stew an ox. The fire beneath it was fed by nothing visible, the ground itself seeming to burn continuously.

Luffy cheered and danced about. Zoro and Nami were halfway through a keg of rum. Usopp and Chopper were entertaining the children with stories. Franky was striking outlandish poses while Brook sang and played music. Sanji was tending the fire under the pot and checking the temperature of the water.

Robin stood on standby, her face hot, feeling the eyes of many G-5 marines on her and her clones. And clones, _plural_ , it was. Three identical Robins stood beside her. Two were nude, waiting for the word from Sanji. The third was also nude, but rather than patiently waiting it was soliciting Tashigi, embracing the buxom, bespectacled swordsman and showering her with kisses.

Robin was not sure what to say about that clone or its behavior. On the one hand it amused her to see the unease in the girl's tensing frame and flushing face, while on the other hand she was bemused to note the apparent arousal of her clone, and to feel how very much _pleased_ that Robin was to touch and kiss and rub against Tashigi.

To her own knowledge, she was neither a lesbian nor an exhibitionist.

Perhaps it was simply the anticipation of cooking that made her act so. That was no more decent a thing, but the more often she cooked the more used to it she became, and the more she learned to enjoy and look forward to it. It was morbidly exciting, and perversely she liked it, and she continually wanted more and more to be cooked and eaten, to see her clones treated like meat, and to feel it as they were carved or boiled or roasted or fried or what have you.

Tashigi's blouse was halfway unbuttoned, and her breasts two thirds of the way out. Her face was red, and her voice was the most adorable little whimpering whine, and her backside was thrust away in a marked curve most pleasing to the eye, when Sanji spoke up.

"The water's ready."

And then Robin's clones dutifully presented themselves. The first two strode up to the pot with neutral expressions, and the third let Tashigi go and joined them a second later. The marine captain looked relieved at this, her face rosy and her clothes much disheveled, but Robin was a little disappointed. She had been hoping to see more.

Robin's eye stayed on Tashigi as her clones mounted the rim of the pot. She felt the steam blast their faces, and her own cheeks reddened in sympathy with the temperature, and beads of sweat formed on her brow. A pale light was kindled in her eyes, and she felt the cast iron burn on fair hands as her clones lifted themselves.

 _Smack! Smack! Smack!_ clapped Sanji's hand thrice on three generous white bottoms, shoving them in over the edge.

Robin winced and bit her lip, feeling the strokes fall in such quick succession, and a shiver darted up her spine. But the faint sting of her buttocks was soon buried under a rush of heat and a shock of much deeper pain as her clones slapped down into the boiling water.

The hiss of steam was almost deafening, and the fizz of frothing bubbles like a solid white foam wrapped the bodies of the Robins. Two lifted their heads above the water, having fallen in face-first. The third did not. Robin felt the sharp pain of a head that had struck something hard, but that soon faded away as her link to that clone was severed. Like a limb cut off from circulation until it went numb and died, she could no longer feel the body of the Robin that had been molesting Tashigi.

What a shame. It seemed her head had hit the bottom of the pot and cracked something vital: she was either stunned or dead. If the former, she'd soon enough become the latter, unconscious beneath the water. And even as Robin thought this, she noticed a rosy red ass break the surface of the soup, and a moment later she saw shoulders and the back of a dark head.

She was floating on her belly, but the other two Robins did not concern themselves with rolling their sister over.

Robin could not blame them. It was all she could do herself just to keep standing as the heat assailed her body. She could feel the water boiling her flesh, scalding her skin and steaming her insides. Her muscles were going tender little by little, and though her original body received no actual cooking, still she felt herself limpen and slump. So with slackening, burning limbs she dragged herself over to the nearest support, feeling her senses begin to swirl in a tempest of pain.

"Ah, N-Nico Robin...!" squeaked the voice of Tashigi, distant and faint through a noise of rushing and roaring like the sea in her ears. "You..."

Robin felt a solidity against which to lean her weight, to rest the substance of her form that seemed to grow more unconscionably burdensome with every passing moment. She placed her chin in a warm crook, and let her bosom compress against something similarly soft and protuberant. Her arms she draped around a lithe frame, and with fluttering eyelids and hitching breath she let herself go as the heat of the water consumed her perception.

She was boiling alive, stewing in the great iron pot. It was enough to slay her through pain alone, were she any less stern of will. As it was she felt delirious, a kind of macabre euphoria leaving her head fuzzy and feeble. Moaning softly she basked in the heat, the burning and the searing of the hissing, leaping, bubbling water. She noticed the fat and grease and oils starting to boil out of her skin in faint trickles. She felt like the heat was suffocating her. She was choking on steam and the smell of her own boiling flesh.

Her hands moved of their own accord, trailing this way and that over a cool body, seeking skin that felt like ice compared to the fire in her bones. Fingers slipped under garments and fussed numbly at buttons, buckles, straps, and ties—inexorable was the search of her groping, pawing hands, and she delved ever deeper in a fever dream of sensations. Boiling was always especially disorienting for her, no doubt a product of her weakness to water.

Soft lips parted and let out a pained moan. Robin's breath was hot and heavy, and she twisted and craned her head to nuzzle her face into the comfy crook of Tashigi's neck, for Tashigi it was against which she leaned. Blearily she nibbled on the soft, pink skin and slipped her hands down the back of pants and the front of a shirt, yanking at one and unbuttoning the other. Distant cheers came to her notice, and she felt pleased through the haze of pain and weakness.

Feeble and woozy as she was, Robin felt nonetheless vaguely aware of Tashigi's body, and of the woman's whining beneath her. She was naked, half or wholly, as a product of Robin's feverish groping, and she wriggled and squirmed awkwardly under the weight of the pirate. Robin smiled dreamily and buried her face deeper, sucking up the sweet tang of sweaty skin, and nibbling weakly on soft flesh.

She could still feel the fire in her marrow, the heat of boiling meat under scalded, burning skin. It was becoming slowly fainter even as the pain waxed, however. Her link to the boiling bodies became slenderer and less direct as the life was steamed out of them, the curvaceous corses of her lovely self half-dead in the bubbling stew. Relief was slow to reach her, though.

"It's hot," Robin moaned into Tashigi's neck, panting and squeezing at soft, generous tissues. "I'm burning, I'm drowning... oh, _death!_ I feel like I'm dying. It's so wonderfully _dreadful_."

She could feel it as her bodies soaked in the juices of their own boiled fat. Her hands roamed Tashigi's bottom and bosom. She groped and seized at one goodly tit, nearly equal to her own in its volume. It squished in her hand, rolling under her palm, squeezed by her searching, fondling fingers.

She squeezed also a firm yet bountiful posterior, an ass of both volume and tone, moaning at the dull, throbbing burn of muscles going tender and weak in the pot. She felt soft, so soft that she was bereft of all muscular agency, her limbs like noodles kept straight only by the bones within. She worked her hands half to assure herself that she did in fact still have control of them, and in doing so conveniently massaged Tashigi's ass.

"Nico Robin... P-Please unhand me," said Tashigi with rather less force than she would have liked. "Don't think I'll let a wanted criminal...!"

She bit her lip before she could finish her sentence, though, and her face turned beet red. Robin had pinched a nipple between long fingers, and was even now prodding dreamily at the rim of a tightly puckered anus between the close cheeks of the marine's ass. Whatever Tashigi was going to say, it was lost and forgotten in a sudden yelp, and that was shortly followed by a confusedly pleased moan.

Sanji was depositing variously sliced or portioned vegetables into the stew. Onions, carrots, potatoes, mushrooms, celery, cauliflower, so on and so forth. He also added some extra soup stock to the stew: a homemade, Nico Robin flavor.

And the clones were, if still alive, so senseless and enfeebled as to be as good as dead meat either way. Their eyes were glassy, their mouths hanging open, their tongues lolling out. Ample bosoms, much ruined by the boiling, floated just beneath the surface, invisible through the yellowish, fatty melange of the broth. The ass of the third clone was redder than ever and slick with grease, which flowed popping and bubbling into the froth of steaming water.

Altogether they cut a shameful sight, degraded and dehumanized, a state of obscenity beyond mere lewdness. It made for a gruesome view to look at them in the stew.

Robin held onto Tashigi, delirious with all this sensation and perception. She was aware of the state of her clones, if nothing else, and she knew what morbid use the bubbling stew made of their nubile flesh. In her dazed and dizzy state she felt pangs of exhilaration, the pain mostly faded now, replaced with a tingling, buzzing, pulsating _numbness_ that pervaded the extremities of her senses.

She worked at Tashigi's breast, kneading and rolling, pinching and squeezing. White, pillowy mounds deformed at every molestation to which she subjected them, and every abuse she inflicted on those fresh, perky nipples caused their owner to cry out and writhe most pleasingly. She could taste the heat in the woman's skin, and feel the lustful gimlet eyes of those who stared at them.

Spasmodically she reared a hand up and clapped it back down on Tashigi's bared ass, forcing her to yell. She felt the soft curve of the perfect bottom quake and recoil from the stroke of her palm, her fingers splaying and burrowing into soft, yielding tissues. She grabbed fiercely at the buttocks, scraping her fingernails across reddening skin, tracing white lines of pain over Tashigi's ass.

The uncouth, unruly fighting men of G-5 cheered uproariously at these proceedings. While they had reverence enough for the kindness, resolve, and beauty of the captain to never so much as dream of imposing their lusts on her, still they were very pleased to see her nakedness, and moreso still to see her body molested by a woman as handsome as Nico Robin.

Robin's fellow Straw Hats were themselves more ambivalent, by comparison. Luffy and Zoro and Chopper were wholly uninterested, while Franky and Brook and Usopp paid only some attention, enjoying the view but not obsessing over it. Sanji was busy tending the stew, and Nami was not (for the most part) interested in women. Kin'emon and Momonosuke watched raptly, though.

The children from the Biscuit Room were mostly bemused by the sight of Robin and Tashigi. For a large part they were not so advanced as to have _interest_ in such matters, but they did have a more innocent kind of interest, a simple curiosity as much as anything.

Trafalgar Law seemed apathetic. Smoker was visibly annoyed.

There were others present, maybe, but Robin paid little attention even to those of whom she knew. All her thought was bound up in the experience of Tashigi's body, and the acknowledgement of the bodies of her clones. She still felt vestiges of the boiling heat, still dizzy and dazed and dreamy. With a husky groan she buried herself yet deeper into this study of flesh.

Sanji had a knife in hand, and he was carving the flesh of the Robins in the stew, reducing their much-cooked meat into strips and cubes. No blood rose from his mechanical incisions, for there was no such flow left in the bodies. With gloves and a cleaver he seized the clones by the hair and hewed their heads from their necks. Several of those who watched this flinched or looked away.

Three decapitated, half-carved carcasses sank into the soup. As for the heads, Sanji laid those aside, side by side. Swollen tongues protruded from gaping mouths, and white sightless eyes stared out, fairly bulging in their sockets. Sopping black hair pooled around the bases of hewn necks, so that these heads might have seemed to have sprouted straight from the earth.

By the standards of any sane, decent person this was a most horrid spectacle. So it says something about how far Nico Robin had been degraded by her lot, perhaps, that she was excited by the view and grew consciously aroused, where before her molestations had been a matter only of thoughtless grasping.

Thrilled into wakefulness by the sight of three of her heads lined up in so macabre a fashion, Robin groped more intently at Tashigi's body. Her eyes opened and her lips curved, and she stole a sudden, deep kiss from the mewling marine. Startled so immensely at the rapidity of Robin's theft, Tashigi could do naught but dumbly gape, and with her mouth wide open Robin was free to thrust her own tongue therein.

Breasts deformed unrecognizably with the rapacity and ferocity of Robin's groping. She sprouted arms from Tashigi's flank to bury her bosom with searching, seeking hands, squishing and stroking and squeezing the great, soft hills of flesh. Tongues blossomed around Tashigi's areolae and wrapped up her nipples, licking and laving.

More hands she sprouted to slap Tashigi's ass, beating the cheeks like a drum roll. Robin fingered her anus and licked her pussy, owning and molesting every part of Tashigi's body in her sudden onslaught. It was almost too much for the poor girl to bear.

Tashigi fell to the ground at the very moment Sanji put out the call that the soup was ready. Gasping and very redfaced, the swordsman weakly asked to have the first bowl, giving Robin an impotently defiant look, as if thinking to gall her with this.

Robin smiled and kissed Tashigi again, more deeply still.


	4. Roasting the Meat

"Robin! It's so good to see you again!"

Koala bounded forward in her cute blouse and black trousers, beaming at the older woman with arms outstretched. She caught Nico Robin up in a hug, which the Demon Child of Ohara returned with almost no hesitation. The ginger tomboy was beatific in her expression, and she looked ready to laugh with the sheer mirth of this unlooked-for reunion.

"Hello, dear," said Robin in her usual husky tone, smiling indulgently at the younger woman. "How have things been with the Revolutionary Army?"

Koala's smile did not lose its gladness, but it did become a touch more sober.

"The usual," she said. "We're fighting the good fight, and that's never easy. But what about you? It's been a while since we've last met!"

Her bosom was mashed up against Robin's. This was not a direct intention on her part, nor really sexual in her mind, but some who saw the pair embracing took note of it with silent appreciation all the same. Robin smiled at Koala, feeling the gazes which turned their way amidst the wreck and ruin of Dressrosa in the aftermath of the battle against Doflamingo.

"I'm alive, and that's all we can hope for," Robin said, patting Koala on the head. If the girl noticed the hint of a rueful tone in Robin's voice, she made no remark. "But it hasn't been so long since we parted. Only a few months."

"It's felt long to _me_ ," Koala said in a whine, somewhat petulant. "There are too few girls in the Revolutionary Army, you know. I can get along just fine with the guys, but it's still not the same as having a proper girlfriend!"

"Speaking of girlfriends," said Robin, pulling a sly look, "How have you been doing with Sabo?"

Koala blushed fiercely pink while her face went downcast. She did not look Robin in the eye.

" _Meanie,_ " she mumbled, telling all with one word.

"Sorry, sorry," Robin laughed. "I see he's still oblivious as ever. That's too bad. You have my sympathy, for what it's worth. He doesn't know what he's missing."

She and Koala broke off their hug.

"How about you?" said the ginger a touch churlishly, though there was no special heat in her voice. "I don't suppose _you've_ had any romance to speak of."

"We've had romance aplenty, after a fashion," Robin coyly replied. "My comrades are all inveterate romantics."

"They're all for masculine romanticism, maybe," said Koala with a smirk. "Am I right? But that's hardly the same thing as what I'm talking about. I mean actual romance, a _woman's_ romance."

"Ah, well... Not much of that," Robin conceded warmly, laughing again. "But I've had my own sorts of adventures..."

She trailed off, then, and her expression became somewhat queer. Remote, in a way, and nearly morose. Her lips quirked halfway, and she looked sidelong at Koala. There was a certain unnerving quality in her glance, and the younger woman almost flinched away from those eyes.

"What do you mean by that?" Koala wondered in spite of herself, eyeing Robin suspiciously in her turn. Her expression narrowed, and she leaned in half curiously.

Robin looked down at Koala's bosom for a second, her eyes flicking to where the girl's breasts dangled within their confines, Koala's whole upper body tilted towards her. She noted in a dispassionate corner of her mind how full and pert the girl's breasts looked inside her blouse, and she thought of all the times her own chest had been mutilated (in clone form) to provide a plump and tender treat for her shipmates.

Koala perceived this glance, and she saw the cool distance in Robin's eye. Her face grew very hot in the second the older woman stared, and though Robin promptly looked back in her eye, Koala could not help feeling somehow abashed and embarrassed. She straightened herself up, not so much as to puff out her bosom, but to the point of slouching where her chest was the least emphasized, and she crossed her arms a little bashfully over it.

Robin smiled at Koala.

"Do you know, the princess of the Tontatta has the power to heal injuries?"

Koala was bemused by this.

She would not be for very much longer.

* * *

"I don't want to do this."

"It's only temporary. You'll be perfectly fine when it's over."

Koala blushed fiercely, trying in vain to cover her chest.

"That's not the _point_ ," she whined. "Everyone can _see_."

Robin smiled at the topless girl, stripping her own dress. Three clones of herself stood nude before them, but still a third of the eyes in the crowd were glued pretty firmly onto Koala, who was clearly abashed and trying to conceal her breasts.

"Yes," said Robin, "including Sabo."

Koala's flush deepened, and she peered over at her friend, comrade, and semi-secret crush where he stood nearby, quite apart from the crowd. Despite her indignation and embarrassment, it was clear that she did feel a little pleased when she saw his gaze locked intently upon her. Judging by how she subtly puffed up and let her arms fall, it seemed like she momentarily forgot all other eyes under his stare.

Robin looked at the fire in the barbecue pit. Coals were burning in a shallow trough, their color a deeply glowing ruddy orange. Material sloughed a little at a time from the smoldering rocks, hair-slight threads and flakes of carbon peeling away from the main clumps in nearly invisible specks, white and shriveled, withering slowly into nothing. Some particles rose with a continuous updraft of hot air, small ashen motes that fell here and there.

That was where her clones would lie. That was where her clones would cook.

Robin did not feel any particular dread at this thought. With every meal she grew more used to the pain and degradation, and while she did not welcome it by any means, still neither did she fear it or try to escape. Indeed, it was by her suggestion that these preparations were made. She it was who offered a live roast for the celebrations, as many women to cook and eat as the people might desire.

And it was she also who convinced Koala to join in on the "fun", and Sabo to help. Mansherry was there, too, and she would heal Robin and Koala after they'd cooked their less necessary parts. Even Robin herself, not just a clone; and Koala also was joining her.

Luffy was not present, nor was Princess Rebecca, but the rest of the Straw Hats still on Dressrosa _were_ in attendance: Zoro, Usopp, and Franky. So were most of their fellow liberators of the island nation, save only the Marines who refused to participate in the barbaric proceedings, although they permitted them to be carried out in a brief period of grace.

The only real shame was that Sanji, who knew best by this point how to bring out the flavors of human flesh, was absent and would not be able to help. But Robin knew enough from all the times her clones had been cooked, and there were Dressrosan chefs willing to aid this endeavor. Sabo would handle herself and Koala, using the powers of the _Mera Mera_ fruit to cook them at a touch.

_At a touch._

Robin was not displeased at this notion. She wasn't the one with the attraction to the man, of course, but scarring or no he was handsome enough. She could see why Koala had a crush on him, and she could also tell—with an outsider's insight—that Sabo felt similarly toward Koala, however inattentive he could be of her. Doubtless the pair would enjoy the process of what Robin had suggested.

The chefs guided Robin's clones to the barbecue pit. Glassy-eyed and grim, the doppelgangers laid themselves down, pale skin glossy with oil. Their backs fell across the coals, and Robin felt the heat strike her threefold, the pain of three identical bodies in matching pose and circumstance. The effect was not directly multiplicative, that is to say she did not feel their backsides on the fire as one sensation with thrice the intensity, but additive and separate, like simultaneously burning three separate parts of her body.

Still, the overall effect was the same, and she cried out with a half strangled moan, arching her back and shivering with the sudden and staggering blast of bare skin touching hot coals. And with the continuation of the sensation, its rapid increase for several moments before it slowly began to dull and lessen, she writhed and whimpered and nearly fell flat on her face.

Koala caught her, despite a worried look on her face, and she held Robin steady with only some slight compunction of fear. The woman's reaction to the coals somewhat perplexed her, for while she expected it to be one of pain only, she could not help noting a faintly pleased look on Robin's face. This disturbed her as much as anything else, but she shrugged it off after a moment.

It wouldn't do for her to obsess. She had given her word to follow through, if only for the wild dream of being held as closely and intimately by Sabo as Robin had insinuated. Indeed, Koala's eyes wandered away from the woman and fell upon her fellow revolutionary, acquiring a dreamlike sort of expression as she met his gaze.

Still, she did have curiosity enough to wonder.

"Does it hurt?"

Robin's answer was prompt and breathless, her speech possessing a pained yet not displeased quality. She smiled weakly at Koala, her face red and her eyes glazed over, sweat beading upon her brow while her mouth dangled half open, a sheen of slaver shining on plump and rosy lips. Her white bosom heaved tremendously with a slow and laborious respiration, soft flesh lewdly quaking.

" _Immensely,_ " she moaned, staring at Koala as though she were looking at something a hundred meters behind the girl.

Koala blushed more deeply, and she squirmed. Looking sidelong at Sabo, and glancing down his lanky but well-muscled form, she whispered more softly to Robin, leaning in toward the woman and looking anxious in both ways, at once nervous and eager, and unsure whether to promptly continue or back out while she still could.

"Is it... worth the pain?" she asked next, her words barely above the hiss of breath.

"Mmm?" Robin purred, still shivering, panting and pawing the air in convulsions of sense. "I don't understand."

"Is this all... being cooked, I mean, even partially... is what comes after this worth the pain _now?_ "

Robin gave Koala the strangest look that either one had ever seen or given. There was something wholly alien about the way she observed Koala in that moment, something so far beyond the pale that there was no relating it to ordinary human experience and perspective. It was slightly chilling, the way that wan smile made its way onto Robin's lips, and that clear light flickered in her eyes.

Nico Robin seemed fey just then, and Koala felt a thrill of apprehension run down her spine at some vaguely macabre aspect of the woman's visage. Like one who had seen a ghost she seemed, or else like someone who had felt soles treading her own grave. She saw no death in Robin's eyes, and she perceived no such omen for herself, nor did she think logically that she _would_ die, but still Robin's look much perturbed her.

Robin smiled.

"It's worth itself," she said enigmatically.

Koala shivered and looked once more away from Robin. She then smiled when she saw Sabo come near, and she puffed out her chest with a touch of pride, and a silent invitation. He peered at her bosom, and she saw the difficulty he had in tearing his eyes away from the ample, curvaceous swell of her tits.

Despite the unnerving manner of Robin, Koala was so pleased by Sabo's stare that she quite forgot her fears and apprehensions. And Sabo came up to Koala, his hands bare and flickering with curls of flame, tongues of fire rising from fingers made of fire, tannish-pink flesh turning red and orange and yellow around the edges.

Robin watched Sabo grab hold of Koala's bosom with those fiery hands, squeezing one globe of flesh beneath either palm, and digging strong and dextrous fingers into the soft, yielding tissues of his compatriot's mammaries. Basking in the ever less painful, throbbing heat that she felt in her backs, and the backs of six arms and legs, and three asses, and three napes, she stared. It stabbed less sharply with every moment as the heat rose deeper, permeating her behinds and cooking her nerves into uselessness.

Koala let out a hiss, and a gasp, both mingled with a groan, and her face turned the reddest it had likely ever been at the first and most painful searing of her skin by Sabo's carefully restrained fire. She thrashed weakly, mastering herself against pushing out of Sabo's grip, and rather commanded her body to lean in toward him. Biting her lip and squeezing her thighs close, she let the weight of her torso drive her tits against Sabo's palms.

Despite the pain, she bucked her hips, and Sabo kneaded her bosom with burning hands. Her flesh visibly reddened, an angry and painful color beyond any blush. Her sweat steamed at his touch, rising in slender, tortuous streams from her breast. The curling wisps of vapor wreathed her face, faint and nigh invisible, merely a shimmer and slightest obscurity that passed wavering now and then over some part of her visage. Yet Sabo stared intently and dug his fingers still deeper into her breasts.

Robin felt her ass burn with phantom pains as her clones cooked on the coals. She watched the chefs prod the three naked bodies, and she felt the long poles jab her thighs, her breasts, her sides. The gloss of her skin was sensual and appetizing, arousing hunger for both food and sex in those who looked—herself included. She fondled her own bosom, watching Sabo and Koala from the corner of her eye, also, and a part of her felt inclined to pout at the wait. But Sabo was completely absorbed in Koala, and it was doubtful if he remembered that Robin was even there.

So, smiling wryly, Robin stepped forward and leaned down beside the burning coals. With a cheek born of impatience she sprouted twelve pairs of tits in the spaces between her roasting clones, protruding twenty-four disassociated breasts from the coals. And kneeling down, feeling the heat which freshly assailed each and every one of those fat, tender bosoms, Robin pressed her own original rack onto the coals, crouching beside the barbecue pit and mashing her teats thereupon.

Between thirteen pairs of breasts, twenty-six creamy globes of flesh introduced all at once to the flames, Robin felt such an onslaught of pain as she had never before experienced. The collective sensations were blinding, and she cried out in gleeful agony. She enjoyed it, in spite of all sense and decency. It delighted her on a deep, shameful, masochistic level. She felt the skin of so many tits quickly tighten, drawing taut over the bulging breastmeat.

Her eyes rolled up in their sockets. Her ass bucked ecstatically in the air. Hellish euphoria overwhelmed her senses and she felt herself descending into bliss. The pain was as good as pleasure. It was better, even. She loved it. She _needed_ it. This was her purpose, her calling, her reason for living.

She looked down at her bosom, seeing it grow fiercely red. The skin touching the coals was quickly browning. She saw sweat and yellow grease trickling up from her pores and rolling down the ponderously curving sides of her bosom. Her eyes glittered with a pale light, and she licked her lips.

Robin drew in a breath, inhaling deeply. She smelled the aroma of cooking flesh that rose up before her. Chefs and attendants were turning her clones onto their bellies, prodding taut flanks with long rods and rolling voluptuous hunks of meat so the tits slapped onto the coals and were squashed beneath their weight.

This pleased her, not the least because of the view of her clones' deeply browned backs and bottoms. Her stomach perversely rumbled, and her loins grew moist, and she felt her breasts roasting in the coals. The pain was intense, and she was pleased to feel it, and she rubbed a hand lustily between her legs, palming her pubic mound and feeling the moisture that welled up from her sex.

Her tits felt like they were hardening, seeming stiff and rigid as the smoke and steam wrapped about them like eager hands exploring the curve of that ample bust. Her nipples were numb, a deeper brown than Robin had ever seen on her body, and only a dull throbbing still came to her from them. She perceived the apparent hardening of all her tits, though she knew logically that this was a trick of perspective, and that her breasts were still objectively tender, if less soft and pliable than she was used to.

Robin contorted her body and shifted her breasts in the coals, panting and grinding her bosom into the fire. She pressed the softer, less cooked skin close into the pit, and her face was red and soaked with sweat. It poured down her brow and her cheeks, dripping into her eyes with sharp, intermittent stinging sensations. She was nearly blinded by this, and by her pains. Still, she could tell that the cooks were now turning over her other tits, the disembodied teats she had so impatiently sprouted amidst the coals.

She tasted copper and salt, iron tang and sweat. She felt numb, painfully unfeeling in all the extremities of her blossomed flesh. She was panting, her breathing labored, and she felt weak. Profoundly weak. It took a formidable effort of will to keep herself from toppling face first into the coals. Her head was swimming and her vision was blurred, and her cunt was aching and soaking her thighs.

Somehow she felt aware of Sabo and Koala. The blond had the redhead in his hands, kissing her on the mouth with lips of flesh and squeezing her ass with hands of flame. Stiff, browned, greasy tits mashed against a hard, bare chest. A womanhood was opened to a pillar of fire, a burning cock that blossomed inside Koala's sex and scorched her sensitive insides.

"Ah... Sabo... it feels so...!❤ " moaned Koala, panting and wrapping her arms weakly around her crush.

"You smell delicious," was Sabo's answer to this, nibbling her neck and making her whine.

"Sabooo..." Koala mewled, wriggling in his arms. "It hurts... but I like it. It feels good when you cook me..."

"I like that," he growled, kissing her hungrily, his hands roaming her backside while his cock filled her pussy. "I want to eat you. I want to touch you. I want to have you all to myself, Koala."

"Ngh... then have me and keep me," she panted, moaning. "I want to be yours. I want you to be mine."

"I am yours," Sabo said, grinning. "And you are mine."

Koala cried out in an orgasmic wail, and she thrashed as powerfully as she still could in Sabo's arms, with how much her flesh had been cooked, and her body so sapped of strength. It seemed feeble enough to kindle pity, but he smiled at her and gave her bottom a light smack. Firm, golden brown buttocks quivered once, twice, then went still.

With a grunt, Sabo came in a gout of fire that flooded Koala's womb. She seized up and screamed at this, going as rigid as a board, and her eyes rolled up to the white. In a shock of pain and pleasure both the girl swooned, but the look on her face was one of utter contentment. Warmly fond, her hands passed over Sabo's backside in her last moment of consciousness, before she went limp.

Sabo held her and kept her from falling to the ground. With a smile, he carried Koala over to a clean wooden slab. He brushed aside the cook with the knife, shaking his head and placing a solid hand on his comrade's breast.

"I can carve her myself," he said pleasantly.

His hand turned black as he spoke, and with fingers positioned like claws he dug into the base of Koala's tits. The dragon's talons had been able to shatter the arena in Corrida Coliseum. Carving through meat was trivial, by comparison. Imbued with armament haki his fingers pierced Koala's cooked flesh and effortlessly, almost gruesomely pried the roasted tits from her chest. A pair of circular gaps was all that remained.

Then he did the same to her pussy; he dug out her womb, too. Lastly he rolled her over and wrenched away her buttocks. Koala slept through all of this, and she stirred only once, when Sabo picked her back up and carried her over to Mansherry. There he laid her down a final time and let the princess of the Tontatta tribe work her magic. Koala would be healed, and then who could say what they would do?

He didn't know for sure, but privately he hoped that it would involve their naked bodies mashed together.

Robin raised herself from the coals at this point, her breasts by now fully cooked. Her clones were still roasting, but the disembodied mammaries were being speared on forks and plucked from the fire. She smiled to see this, none too secretly pleased to notice how hungrily people were eyeing her roasted flesh.

She stood and gingerly touched her chest. Her hand recoiled immediately, scalded by the heat of her flesh there. Her tits were numb, and all she felt from them was a dead weight and suffocating warmth.

Smiling, Robin carried herself to the great cutting board laid out on the ground, and taking up a knife she poised its keen edge just above her breasts.

With a pale gleam in her eye, she made the first cut.


	5. Niku Robin

Robin was begging as they raised her naked backside and lined up the long, steel, pointed rod with her anus. She was pleading as they pinned her wrists and ankles and pulled her head back. She was desperately imploring as they pressed the spit down between her pale, round buttocks.

Not for mercy. Not for life. Not for them to spare her.

She begged them to carry on, pleaded with them to shove the rod home, and implored them to roast her over the flames. Nectar dribbled from her sex as she moaned and babbled, her eyes glassy and distant with unknowable thoughts of depraved anticipation. Her bosom mashed on the hard surface and she raised her backside an inch, pressing her anus right up to the pointed tip of the pole.

The shaft felt cold against her burning skin. The air washed over her naked body with a tinge of heat from the rising fire. Her entire body seized with an indescribable reaction when the spit was shoved the first inches down. It spread her anus, and her cunt gushed with the thrill. Loudly and lewdly she moaned, her face ruddy and pink, a shameless smile arching her lips.

Desperately eager was she to receive this. Her sex dripped profusely, and tears welled in her eyes. She bucked her hips on the unyielding rod as it pushed deeper. Moaning louder she clenched her hands, curling her fingers against the flat stone on which she lay. She felt the spit go in farther and farther, and her heart was leaping and bounding in an ecstasy of apprehension.

The point came to the first resistance beyond mere tightness, to the first actual barrier represented by the first bend of her colon. Intestines twisted in a circuitous course that the hard steel rod could not follow, straight and inflexible as it was. But it needed to go through all the same.

Robin bit her lip and closed her eyes, shuddering with the knowledge of what would come next. Pressure was laid more heavily on the spit, a greater force and weight pressing sharply down into her ass. Driven in this sudden burst the spit lanced its way swiftly through her belly. Her guts were either shifted aside or punched clean through.

It was a violent, stabbing pain that assailed Nico Robin as she watched her clone bent over and spitted, but she did not protest or regret these sensations, not even for a single fleeting instant. Rather she delighted in them and touched herself, masturbating without a care for who watched, surrounding by a forest of flesh.

A banquet of meat was laid out on low tables all around Robin. Rump roasts and shepherd's pies and blood puddings and hams and steaks and fillets. Drumsticks and wings and shoulders and bacon, ribs and tongues and hands and feet. The delicious fragrance of the meat filled the air, wrapping around Robin like a sacred incense. It both soothed and excited her to smell it, so powerfully aromatic that she could practically taste the meat in her mouth.

She drooled, gazing around at all the meat. Here and there she could still see the shape of its source, clues to the animal from which it had come. Some cuts were large and little changed from their living form, rumps and breasts particularly. Nor was there any mistaking the nature of the tender loins, the cunt fillets lying in rows with sprigs of parsley and sprinklings of spice.

Her eyes gleamed in a way that was quite removed from sanity.

It was all _her_ meat, a banquet of human flesh prepared from a countless number of her bodies. Clone after clone Robin had made, and clone after clone had been cooked. The one being spitted now was only the latest, and certainly not the _last_. She was numb in a pleasant sort of way from all the sensations to which her bodies had been subjected, but still she could feel it as the tip of the rod pushed up her throat, gagging her and making her shiver and tilt her head back.

Robin watched as the gleaming point emerged from between her clone's lips. It was slick and clean, and she saw her tongue working over the length as it protruded, a lewd and shameless spectacle that left her cunt drenched. There was nothing to say to this, no sensible response one could make to her present state. She was under attack from wave after wave of pain and pleasure and twisted delight.

She was twisted. There could be no debating this point. No sane, healthy woman would come this far or do these things of her own volition. Whether it damaged her body or not, no woman with even the slightest vestigial hint of self worth or humanity would _beg_ to be treated this way, as she did.

Robin was a degenerate. A masochist of the most perverse and unnatural kind. She sank into the filthiest and most depraved corners of the human imagination, far beyond any classification of paraphilia or neurosis. First it had been a grim necessity, then a secret pleasure, then an open fetish, and finally a way of life.

_I am meat._

Robin thought this, looking around at her bodies, cooked and carved and portioned out into dishes of every sort. A pale light shone continuously in the depths of her eyes, and her tongue flitted out now and then to lick her lips as she continued to masturbate. Fingers sifted eagerly through the silky, warm moistness of her pussy. A palm chafed a stiff nipple and mashed an ample tit.

She felt her body rise as the spit was lifted and carried over to the fire. She looked at her naked, pale form so curvaceous and nubile, and she beheld herself run dehumanizingly through from ass to mouth. Lolling eyes caught her gaze, and a wagging tongue amused her with its salacious explorations of the rod.

The spit was set over the fire, and the glistening, oiled body of Nico Robin began to turn with an agonizingly slow deliberateness over the flames.

Heat assailed her bare tits. She felt it blasting her front like a wave, and she saw her skin grow florid in the warmth. Her lips quirked, and her mouth watered, and her hips shifted side to side. A bountiful ass swayed with a happy, lusty wiggle that began at the bottom and flicked the hips, bending the waist and bouncing her breasts, and making her head turn giddily to and fro.

A ruddy face was smiling broadly, dark eyes shining deeply. Several hands danced up and down Robin's body, fingers branching out from fingers to knead every inch of her most sensitive places. Tongues she sprouted from the palms, and she tasted the sweat on her skin, a pleasant salting on the umami of her naked flesh.

 _I taste delicious,_ thought Robin dreamily, panting heavily. Her bosom heaved, assaulted by several tongues and dozens of fingers, and in it she felt the slowly blossoming heat of roasting flesh as her clone turned slowly and inexorably over the fire. _Good enough to eat. Mm! I want to eat myself!_

She moaned shamefully, excited by this twisted and slatternly notion. It thrilled and aroused her. It made her feel so utterly pleased with herself, as though this was a great and worthy accomplishment on her part, to be so savory in taste as to elicit hunger even from herself. This was a good enough thing to make her satisfied with her life, to make her feel that she had done all she needed to do in the world.

Robin raised a hand from her pussy—one of her original two hands—and looked at how it dripped and glistened with the moisture of her cunt. She smiled absently, amused and contented with her own arousal. Her lips parted suggestively, slowly and sensually, and she slipped her index finger into her mouth. Then she puckered her lips around the digit and savorously began to suck.

"Mmm..." she moaned, her eyes rolling up in her sockets. The tang of her fluids filled her mouth, and a shiver rocketed through her spine, jolting her from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. "Mmm, nnng, ohhh❤ "

Robin shook her hips and curled her tongue lewdly around the tip of her finger. She felt her vast, meaty ass quiver and quake with the lustful rolling of her hips, and sprouted hands worked their way back and forth over her buttocks even the same as they worked on her breasts. Her teeth pressed down over her finger, gently pinching the digit between incisors.

Her eyes squeezed shut, and Robin bit infinitesimally harder, imagining how good it would feel to let go and bite all the way through, if she could, to snap her own finger off her own hand and taste her own blood, her own flesh, raw and warm in her mouth even as pain stabbed through her nerves.

She didn't actually do this, but it was a close thing, and only somewhat regretfully did she pull the finger back out of her mouth, licked clean and glistening with saliva.

She could feel the skin growing taut and crisp over her plump, curvy, juicy body. She could feel the burn that sliced deeper into her nerves with every rotation of her body on the spit, her insides still dully aching from their impalement. She could feel her ass flaming and sweating, her tits stinging and leaking grease. She could see her body weakly squirm on the rod, her clone's glassy eyes staring blearily into the distance.

It was heavenly, an exquisite torment like no other. She was addicted to this pain, to this degradation and abuse. She needed to be treated like this, to be trussed up, roasted, and carved like a hunk of meat. Because she _was_ meat. That was her one purpose, the only honest assessment of her value. To say anything else would be to vainly prevaricate.

False sentiments of human worth meant nothing to Robin anymore. She no longer saw any value in life for its own sake, unless it was to enjoy the sensations afflicted on her by the cooking and consumption of her clones. That, maybe, could be called a worthy purpose, and a reason to continue living.

Robin moaned, thrusting into her sex with moist tongues and dexterous fingers. Her ass cheeks were squashing and trembling under innumerable molestations, as were her breasts, and her thighs and underarms and neck and sides. She ravished her own body with a single-minded efficiency, the sum effect of her molestations akin to sending a buster call after a single ship.

She moaned, feeling her flesh sear in the heat, seeing the meat prepared from her other bodies that was even now being feasted on, smiling dreamily to witness the predatory appreciation on the faces of those who consumed her. Robin's eyes rolled in their sockets, and her cheeks burned from within, and her tongue lolled out of her mouth.

Her expression was a gorgeous _ahegao_ , and her body rocked and quaked with explosive tremors. She was roasting on the spit, her limbs no longer even needing to be bound, sapped of all strength by the flames below. Her arms could not move. Her legs could not move. The spit parted her buttocks and gaped her mouth, and she ached contentedly alongside the continuous dull throb of her punctured innards.

She felt the fog in her brain, the dizziness and delirium of a mind nearing its end. Her body was well-cooked, her skin becoming a fine golden brown. Juices quite apart from sweat gleamed and glistened as they rolled in beady streaks over her curvaceous form. Trails of moisture, grease and oils, made fleeting lines over the darkened skin, the rolling hills and valleys of her voluptuous, roasting carcass.

The eyes were white and glassy. The tongue was deep red and swollen against the spit. The lips were browned and faintly cracking. Nipples were rigid, and the un-pinkened insides of her sex could be glimpsed behind parting labia. A generous rump moved only a little with its revolutions, held quite stiffly beneath taut, crispy, golden skin.

Robin no longer felt the pains of her clone's body, and not only because the pleasures of masturbation had washed away all other perception. The link was severed, and she knew the clone was fully cooked, or near enough thereto. Smiling contentedly she allowed the multitudinous members enveloping her lewd, voluptuous form to recede and dissipate.

She watched as they removed the spit from over the fire, and as they drew the long shaft back out from her clone's body, allowing the roasted corpse to slap onto a wooden board. She smiled as they began to carve the meat, taking a knife to her flesh. With a dreamy expression on her face, Robin laid herself down and consented to be bound once more in seastone cuffs.

It did not trouble her to be carried past the bodies of her former comrades, nor to think that their ambitions had come to a final end here in the New World. She did not mourn their deaths. She was too happy to grieve. So long as she could carry out her purpose in life, it did not matter for whom her flesh cooked.

She was meat, after all.

Meat did not have _nakama_.


End file.
